Work, repeat.

The 18-month itch bites once more
And finds me grasping for the door.
Why do I feel this urge to flee
When what I have meets many needs?
Can I not run so far away
From problems, and just be at play
Amidst the leaves and mountains high?
I need to breathe, or may well die!

My father tells me; ‘Stick it out,
And one day maybe you’ll grow stout
On all the praise and riches earned.’
But these are things I wish to spurn!
I wish to live a simple life,
Free of ‘business’, woes and strife,
A gentle living, though not at ease,
Just making do: Happiness seized.